


Betrayals

by terri_testing



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-26 08:08:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1681055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terri_testing/pseuds/terri_testing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The one thing you can't trade for your heart's desire is your heart."</p><p>Lois McMaster Bujold, Memory</p><p> </p><p>Snape could save Lily from certain death.  Will he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Requests

**Author's Note:**

> None of the characters are mine and I make no profit from this. Thanks to colon for beta-ing!
> 
> Reposted from Occlumency archive on sycophanthex.com.

_"Just... wrestling with temptation."_   
_"Who's winning?"_   
_"I think... I'm going for the best two falls out of three."_

Lois McMaster Bujold, Memory

 

“My Lord.” The spy bowed, finishing his report.  
  
Karkaroff, by the Dark Lord’s side, nodded judiciously; the young man was shaping up as a decent intelligencer under his tutelage. He was adept at direct information-gathering, at sneaking and spying—unlike the next agent who’d be reporting, whose talent was for using his family connections and the occasional Imperius to get information from agencies and keep abreast of the rumors flowing in the higher reaches of society. As it happened, Malfoy was the one who had recruited Snape. As each man knew of the other’s involvement, there was no point to maintaining the usual secrecy and dismissing the younger man immediately. It might be more efficient…. Karkaroff murmured to the Dark Lord, “If Malfoy’s got the information we hope, it may determine Snape’s next assignment.”  
  
The high, sharp voice spoke authoritatively. “Let him stay, then; I shall give his next orders when we’ve heard Lucius’s news.”  
  
Snape bowed again and stepped back. Malfoy was summoned.  
  
Lucius advanced and kissed the hem formally, then smiled up at his master. The Dark Lord spoke, “Well?”  
  
Lucius said, “My Lord, I have finally succeeded in getting the information you requested. My informant tells me there were several wizard boys born in the last week of July. Two, in fact, were born to families who may be said to have “defied” you: to the Aurors, Frank and Alice Longbottom, and to—Severus, you’ll like to hear this—to the Blood traitor, James Potter, and his Mudblood wife.”  
  
Karkaroff arched an eyebrow at the interpolation. Lucius explained smoothly, “Ancient history. Severus was in the same year at Hogwarts with Potter and his little gang of friends. No love lost, shall I say?”  
  
Snape had taken a half step forward, his fists clenched. He laughed shortly. “No love? You are moderate, Lucius. Though I should think… the Longbottom boy would be a Pureblood, surely the threat would come from there, rather than from a Half-Blood like Potter’s spawn would be?”  
  
The Dark Lord spoke musingly, “Yet the prophecy specified… “thrice defied him,” you are sure, Severus?”  
  
“My Lord, those were the words.” Snape bowed again, his face lowered deferentially.  
  
“Thrice defied… the Aurors, yes, have several times interrupted my plans. But the Blood traitor, I remember him; he’s been making noise…. Thrice defied. Best to be sure of both. But I’ll eliminate the Potters first.”  
  
Snape smiled, his black eyes glittering with malice. “My Lord, I rather owe Potter. In fact, I think I may say I owe him a lot. If I have deserved any favor of you for my services, may I make a request now?”  
  
“You wish to… participate, Severus? That may not be advisable; we’re keeping you under cover. I think I prefer to reserve you.”  
  
“Coming on the raid would no doubt be most enjoyable… but there are ways and ways of participating. No, I was thinking… I know Potter, you see, and the sweetest revenge… would be upon his wife. I can think of nothing that would more horrify Potter than the thought of his wife with his worst enemy; it would be like one of us contemplating a Muggle defiling a Pureblood woman. The ideal would be if Potter could know I should take her—but even as posthumous revenge, it would be most… delicious.”  
  
Lucius laughed. “You have a dark mind, Severus. Maybe a number of Death Eaters could share her? I know for a fact that not all are as fastidious in their pleasures as I am. A filthy Mudblood, after all. Frankly, I’d thought you more of my mind in this matter.”  
  
Snape’s lips stretched in a slow smile. “But as it’s Potter’s wife we’re speaking of…. and, rape, Lucius? You shock me. How crude and fatiguing. So much effort for such slight physical reward. No, I was thinking more… of guaranteeing cooperation. Surely Potter would be more incensed at the thought of his wife willfully caressing his enemy than at her being forced. I could ensure her… willfulness, quite adequately, with my potions. She could be Stunned and left when the other two are killed. I wouldn’t appear in the matter at all, simply show up days or weeks later to attend to the grieving widow’s, ah, needs. Newfound needs.”  
  
Snape looked back at the Dark Lord, his expression greedy. “My Lord? Please? If I’ve deserved such a reward and if it should be convenient when the occasion arises? You’ll consider my request?”  
  
The Dark Lord laughed. “I’ll consider it, Severus. Now to your next task. See you perform it well, and I’m more likely to reward you.”  
  
  
He should have put forward his strongest arguments. He’d prepared several in the instant he’d heard her husband’s name in Lucius’s mouth. What he had said was credible enough, but it wouldn’t sway the Dark Lord if she proved intransigent. As she would, oh, she would. The Dark Lord might save her as a reward for Snape, but only if it cost him nothing. The moment she inconvenienced him, he would kill. Most likely he would kill her anyway, just to savor Snape’s disappointment. He didn’t want his followers to come to expect their requests be granted.  
  
But Snape had other arguments, much more convincing, based on the Dark Lord’s own self-interest. Voldemort would accept mild inconvenience to get a useful tool. Snape should have made his points tonight. The arguments were on his tongue, but he’d held silent for some reason. Was he afraid to seem over-eager? Yet what if the Dark Lord acted at once? He should have spoken, convinced the Dark Lord it was for his own good to keep her alive.  
  
He was almost sure. He needed to be careful he’d overlooked nothing. He needed to marshal his arguments before he presented them to the Dark Lord.  
  
Snape could control her wholly. He could bewitch her mind with his potions. He could take her and keep her, and it would be in the Dark Lord’s interests if he did so.  
  
He tossed in his bed, his mind racing, going over the arguments he’d make tomorrow.  
  
What possible better cover for a Death Eater spy than a Muggle-born wife? No true Death Eater would touch such a woman; the bare fact of the marriage should remove him from most suspicion. And she—a junior member of the Order, grieving widow of a martyr of the Order, she might be his entrée to spying on the Order. If she announced that she’d misjudged him, some of the Order might trust him. Even Dumbledore, that proponent of second chances, might re-evaluate him. He might have another chance at the Hogwarts position. The Dark Lord would love that. He could make it work.  
  
In fact, even if they didn’t trust him—it could still work. The understanding husband would encourage his wife to remain in contact with the Order; she needed to maintain her own life and friends. Maybe he’d seem a little resentful of their distrust, but he’d try visibly to control it. And he would ostentatiously refuse to ask anything about the Order’s activities so long as they misjudged him. Under Legilimency or Veritaserum, she could confirm he never asked her questions—while Snape used his own Legilimency to make her his unconscious spy. He would daze her mind enough that she could never detect his intrusions. They would trust her; she would trust him. If he controlled her in just the right way, he could make it work.  
  
She was a powerful witch, talented with charms and potions, creative. They had worked well together when barely more than children. She could work with him again, unknowingly doing research for the Dark Lord. He could tell her they were working on Dark charms to find their counters. She could help him in brewing his potions. He could make her obey him unquestioningly; her talents would serve the Dark Lord. He could make it work.  
  
  
One of Snape’s most-valued skills was his ability to take a general potion and brew it for a more specified application—to key it to a specific person or event. It was really just a variant of how Polyjuice and love potions were tailored, but very few even of the Potions Masters could apply the principle more generally. Snape could brew the will-weakening potion, for example, so it could be slipped into some officials’ morning coffee with no general weakening of resolve to sow suspicions. But when the one person keyed to it, delegated to use the Imperius, approached—they’d be lost.  
  
There were an array of potions he could tailor to use on her. He would secure the effects to himself physically, chemically, to his odor. When he came into her presence, she would react. The Dark Lord would simply need to stun her and slip the initial potion down her throat. Almost as easy as killing her, no effort at all. Snape would take care of the rest. In the trauma of the loss of husband, child, home, and life, she’d not likely be able to analyze her more subtle responses.  
  
Snape would show up, very properly and openly, a day or two after her tragedy. No suspicious haste, no suspicious early knowledge. He’d wait until it was published in the Prophet. Maybe until after the funeral. He would open, “I know you may not want to see me, but I was always sorry for our estrangement. I couldn’t stay away in your time of sorrow.”  
  
When he came close enough for her to scent him, to react to his physical presence, she would feel as though a key had been turned in the lock of her grief and terror.  
  
The strongest Creduloserum, but instead of its conferring general gullibility, she’d find herself incapable of distrusting anything Snape chose to tell her. And almost all he’d say would be the truth.  
  
Plus a lulling potion normally used to calm young children with nightmares, but keyed to his scent. She’d find herself feeling safer in his presence, more secure and relaxed when he was physically near her. Comforted. Protected. Warmed. After she’d once been near enough to scent him, she’d find herself longing for him in his absence. Whenever they were in the same room, she’d find herself drifting to his side, needing to be near him. His physical closeness would assuage her, and nothing else.  
  
She wouldn’t react romantically at once to him, nothing to make anyone suspicious. Just that the company of one particular old friend made her feel better. Those who’d lost all were vulnerable. She’d show the normal reactions of someone in mourning, when an estranged friend from childhood graciously set aside their old differences to ease her pain.  
  
If he were lucky, she would cry. He would offer her his handkerchief and make sure she kept it—a handkerchief he’d held briefly in his armpit, so it was permeated with his smell. She would take it out later, finding it comforting in his absence. She might sleep with it, reluctant to give up its solace, thinking always of his kindness. And if anyone examined it for charms, it was only a handkerchief. No magic at all.  
  
When he would suggest they meet privately on another day for more conversation, she’d agree easily, trusting him, hungry for his presence. He could re-dose her then. And Confund her, so she wouldn’t remember drinking or eating anything. The second dose, stronger, and with additions—to induce gratitude for his kindness and remorse at rejecting him so long ago.  
  
“You thought I’d turned to evil, but you misjudged me grievously,” he would say. She would apologize profusely, probably with tears. She’d be grateful for the return of his friendship, for his forbearance. He would allow her to come into his arms; he would stroke her hair in token of his forgiveness.  
  
And Complicio potion, making her eager to please. To please him. Keyed only to him. She’d feel reassured, elated, whenever he showed himself pleased with her. With a strong enough dose, the victim lived for the user’s approval. But he would start with quite a mild one; he would strengthen the dose over time to make her increasing dependence look natural.  
  
She’d be eager to meet him at regular enough intervals to accept the doses. He assumed she’d be staying with friends or the Order for a time, not alone. If alone, she would have no barriers at all against him. If with friends… once a week would probably do it for the dosing, depending on how the potions combined. She would want to see him more often than that, though; she would feel she needed to see him more often. He would be there more often than that. Much more often. Soon they’d meet daily, by her own clear desire. So they needn’t be alone together for re-dosing her every time; they could be mostly innocuously in public, chaperoned. Her showing each time how she increasingly relied on him, how she trusted him, how she was steadied by his presence. How she needed his renewed friendship.  
  
Even if Dumble—if anyone suspected anything, the standard remedies wouldn’t work against his revised potions, nor would Finite Incantatem. And she would vehemently insist on his innocence, on her own desire to see her maligned childhood friend again. He could build in enough of a long-lasting effect that she’d meet him again and again for re-dosing. If he thought they were being watched, he could carry an encapsulated dose in his mouth, kiss it into hers. Yes, that would be better. The way he’d key the dose to her, he wouldn’t be affected if he accidentally ingested it.  
  
Once a week, or maybe more often, a not-quite-chaste kiss. Never go near any of her food or drink, never give her anything. He’d have witnesses to his innocence. Probably more often than once a week; he could intensify the doses more quickly since he didn’t have to worry about being spotted. There would be nothing for a suspicious bystander to see but the old friend comforting the grieving widow. Perhaps a little inappropriately, but it would be for her to object.  
  
The first time he dosed her, he’d tell her, “I know I shouldn’t, it’s far too soon… but I’ve been wanting to so long. I don’t want to do anything you don’t want, but just let me, once…. You do trust me, don’t you?” And a quick Confundus, nonverbal, so she wouldn’t notice the taste or swallowing. After the kiss he would fold her in his arms, apologize for his forwardness, tell her he wanted most just to comfort her. He would encourage her to cry. Letting her breathe him and breathe him as the dose took effect.  
  
“Trust me,” he would say. And she would.  
  
She might not welcome his kiss that first time, but her trust and need to be near him would keep her from pushing him away altogether. And it would be followed immediately by renewed trust, by regret at rejecting him before, by a need to please him now. Which would strengthen quickly. Even if only to prove her trust and gratitude, she’d soon accept his kisses pliantly. He’d confuse her mind so that the taste in her mouth from kissing him would be forgotten. No, better yet: add to her doses Tongue-Numbing Drops and a second’s worth of Oblivio. He wouldn’t have to Confund her, to have his wand at all. He could disarm himself to disarm her friends’ mistrust.  
  
With each kiss, each dose, she would have a moment of oblivion as she swallowed. There would be no taste, no memory, nothing to warn what his kisses were doing to her. She’d be aware only of a surge of feeling, an intensification of her response to him, which a kiss might well cause naturally.  
  
If Dumbledore tried to interfere, she would resist being separated from him. Dumbledore might finally resort to accusing Snape of overhearing the Prophecy, of being the Death Eater who gave the information to Voldemort. If he tried that, Snape would demand to see her in private. He’d admit the first, deny the second. His story would be that he’d been assaulted and Stunned a few days after hearing the prophecy; he woke, money gone, beaten, memory gone. He must have been Legilimised and Obliviated. He’d be horrified at the realization: he was the wholly inadvertent cause of her grief. How could he make it up to her? How could he protect her now?  
  
She would be helpless to disbelieve Snape; she would want to comfort him for his horror. She would reproach herself for having believed Dumbledore’s slurs. She would need to prove she didn’t blame Snape for what he couldn’t have helped.  
  
In fact—Snape grinned ferociously—the release of the prophecy was really Dumbledore’s fault. He had hustled Trelawney into refuge at Hogwarts but in his prejudice he had left Snape wholly unprotected, to be drained of his knowledge by the Death Eaters. No doubt Snape would have been killed as well, but that even Death Eaters don’t kill their old school buddies without need. Probably Snape knew his assailant, before he’d reformed.  
  
No, better: since Snape had no idea he was supposed by Dumbledore to have brought You-Know-Who the prophecy, when they Legilimised Snape they thought they could conceal from Dumbledore that they’d discovered it. Killing Snape would have made it obvious they’d gotten to him, so they made it look like a simple robbery, just to cover up their tracks.  
  
She would feel guilty at having believed Dumbledore and grateful to Snape for not turning against her. Her gratitude, her remorse, her trust in Snape would overflow in tears and kisses. He would accept them forgivingly, each kiss a new dose. She would thank him for them, ending closer to Snape for Dumbledore’s interference. She’d be appalled, furious, that Dumbledore’s indifference to Snape’s well-being had risked his life and allowed the prophecy to get out. And she would need, overwhelmingly, to defend Snape against all other such accusations.  
  
By then she’d be welcoming his kisses and the escalating doses they brought her. Each kiss would increase her trust in him, would intensify her feeling of being protected and comforted, would sharpen her hunger to please him. She’d be incapable of questioning this reaction. She would nestle against him, breathing him in, after each kiss. They’d soon be snatching private kisses in every visit.  
  
Their excuse at first would be the comfort she found crying in his arms. She would weep; he would take her quietly aside and hold her; she would come back composed and strengthened. This would become expected by her friends. That they exchanged a small, secret kiss each time would become expected by her; she would welcome the kisses more and more readily as their effects on her escalated.  
  
If she felt traitorous to Potter, allowing Snape to kiss her, he’d use that to encourage her to weep, keeping her enfolded in his arms, breathing, until she had calmed again. Then he’d explain he didn’t expect her to have feelings for him as she did for her dead husband, she was just indulging him, a small private indulgence, like stroking her hair. Let him. Please. She would be helpless to deny him; she would be happy to deny her increasing pleasure in his embrace. He was just being kind comforting her; she was just being kind back, rewarding him by accepting a single small kiss. Another kiss. Another.  
  
As the craving in her built.  
  
As she grew more acquiescent, more accustomed, he would increase her to several doses a visit. Another dose. Another. Each one accelerating the effects. Cumulative. She would seek his embrace more and more eagerly, with less excuse of tears.  
  
He would feign eventually to become aware that his daily visits, his embraces, were become a bit scandalous. He would offer to discontinue them; she would protest. He’d insist that she be given some time away from him to think. He’d give her an extremely potent dose, encircling her with his arms and his scent, as he explained he was leaving only for her sake. For his own part he desired only to be with her, to hold her, to do anything he could to make her feel better. But to protect her reputation…. She would plead, but he’d be adamant. He would leave and not return unless she summoned him. Not leaving a handkerchief, nor any trace or sign to console her. He would make sure of that.  
  
She’d be desolate in his absence. Her comfort, her security, would all be gone, and she would hurt at the thought he was denying himself for her good. It might take her a day to learn she could no longer live without him. It might take several. It wouldn’t take more. By the time she sent her owl, she’d be indifferent to her reputation and to her friends’ reactions to his courtship.  
  
For by then it could be courtship.  
  
Only after he had her confidence, her trust, her dependence wholly secured, would he ensnare her senses. Not a lust potion, nothing so crude or easily countered. When she reached the point of soliciting his kisses, he’d reward her with a touch of euphoria and a potion that sensitized the skin. Keying it to himself personally might have the effect, yes; it would have the effect of keying her to the actual touch of his body. She would learn almost at once that embraces through clothes weren’t enough to satisfy her, that it was the brush of his lips, his flesh, his hair against her bare skin that inflamed her.  
  
Snape would force her to go slowly. He would wear an open-collared robe and let her press her cheek against his collarbone as he embraced her. She would gasp at the pleasure that that few inches of contact could give her. He would kiss her soft hair; he would let her stroke his. He would let his hands trace her face, her throat, the pale shell of her ear. He would allow her to twine one hand in his hair, slide the other over his neck, as she pulled his head down, as she forced his mouth against hers, forced his lips to open, forced his tongue to seek hers. Forced Snape to give her another dose.  
  
By then it would be wholly natural to her that his kisses strengthened her feelings. She would invite the effect. Each time she was the one to initiate the kiss, her body would burn more brightly. Each time she let him do so, her need to please him, her gratitude, her trust, would deepen. Her body would learn rapidly how to increase its pleasure in his touch, never realizing it was learning.  
  
In public, her fingers would find a way to brush his when she handed him a cup of tea. His hand would trail against hers casually as they conversed, and she would show herself breathless, voiceless, undone by sensation. He would adopt Lucius’s hand-kissing, and she’d shiver with pleasure at the touch of his lips.  
  
By the time he first let his hands travel beneath her robes, she’d be pleading for his touch. Maybe her hands would be the first to travel, helpless to stop themselves from exploring his body—she was an experienced woman, after all. He’d be sure to wear loose robes, easily opened. If he chose to allow her that liberty. He’d make her proceed slowly, slowly, at his own pleasure and will. But he’d kiss her as often as she demanded, heightening her response to him. Soon she’d be helpless.  
  
(Snape pressed his sticky body against the mattress. He didn’t want his hands; he wanted her.)  
  
It was shocking for a widow to remarry too soon, but it was also understandable when someone whose life had been wholly shattered built entirely anew. Snape had heard the dual currents of gossip in his Muggle childhood, shared by her. An overpowering tragedy, an old friend showing up to offer comfort and protection, revealing unsuspected devotion… a perfect scenario for sweeping a widow off her feet. He would consult with Lucius on protocols and timing, but he thought he could give her Amortencia within a month. It might even be redundant. She would give anything by then, anything, to secure his scent and strength surrounding her. She would crave his approbation, his hands along her body. Being held.  
  
She would marry him gladly, despite the scandal. And then she would be powerless. He could keep her dosed easily. She would take anything at his hands, believe anything he willed. And she would look at him, alight, as he had seen her look…  
  
At James.  
  
Not the blank, befuddled look of someone succumbing to the Imperius Curse—she’d smile at Snape; she’d be eager to please him; she’d plead for his touch.  
  
  
Why didn’t he feel more triumphant at the thought? He could control her reactions. He could make it work.  
  
Control her—making her a puppet—his thoughts stopped.  
  
  
He had always thought, back then, without thinking it through—that he could have both—both her and his ambitions…. But she would never have accepted some of his current activities. The only way to keep her would have been to keep her ignorant or control her will. No. To keep her ignorant _and_ control her will. What he was planning now. Potion after potion, day after day. He could make it work.  
  
To make a doll shaped like Lily. Red hair, green eyes, thighs parted for him, no thoughts counter to what he allowed her. Another dose. Another.  
  
A smile. A smile. A smile.  
  
And… he’d always thought, back then, without thinking it through—that his holding a high position among the Death Eaters could serve to protect her—that he could hold one woman, one Muggle-born, as an exception to their policies…. And probably he could, until the Dark Lord took full power. He could make it work. Until then.  
  
A Muggle-born wife made a good cover for a spy. While they needed him to keep his cover. When the Dark Lord took power, the Mudblood would be a liability. With which a good Death Eater would dispense. Reluctance to do so would endanger himself. As if he’d care, but the will to protect her would destroy the position from which he’d hoped to do so. He’d be discredited; the other Death Eaters would simply kill them both. Snape could never save her, never. He could never make it work.  
  
If the Dark Lord took full power, she was dead.  
  
  
But he could make it work until then. If he chose.  
  
His sweat was icy.  
  
Only one man could possibly stop the Dark Lord’s ascent to power. Hide her in the meantime. Keep her safe. Perhaps.  
  
But if Snape told him everything, told him he’d requested the Dark Lord to spare her—then if it happened and she were spared, he would never let Snape near her, never. He would guess what Snape had offered in trade to the Dark Lord, what Snape had wanted, and take steps to guard her.  
  
Only one man could possibly stop it.  
  
If Karkaroff’s prize intelligencer couldn’t find a way to arrange a wholly secret meeting with Albus Dumbledore, no one could.  
  
  
  
Snape knelt in the wild darkness, wringing his hands.  
  
 _“I—I come with a warning—no, a request—please—”_  
  
Protect her from him. And from me.  
  
  
  



	2. Betrayals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He could still make it work.

_“Nevertheless not what I will, but what thou wilt.” Mark 14:36  
  
  
_ “Headmaster.” The spy stood calmly enough before Dumbledore’s desk, but his hands were clenched. Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed, observing this. He’d start pacing next. Dumbledore set aside his papers as a gesture of courtesy. Not but what this man had his full attention without the gesture.  
  
“He had a meeting with another of his spies before he saw me—I believe the traitor from the Order, whose identity I still have not been able to ascertain. I was held aside while they conferred, debriefing with Karkaroff, who himself projects unsatisfied curiosity as to this particular spy’s identity. When I saw the Dark Lord, he ordered me to cease my current undertakings to focus on a new project.”   
  
Black eyes fixed on Dumbledore’s.   
  
“He wants me to use my access to the Hogwarts library to research ways of breaking the Fidelius Charm.”  
  
Dumbledore reflexively broke the eye contact, and Snape froze.   
  
Snape whispered, “I thought so. Did you suggest it for both couples?”  
  
Dumbledore looked back at him grimly. “The Longbottom ancestral home is so well warded, I did not yet think it necessary for them.”  
  
Snape had started his pacing. His face was completely without expression, but his stride was jerky, not the smooth prowl he used when conferring with an ally or contemplating a plan. And he was whispering still, almost voiceless. “Who knew?”  
  
“Whoever they told in the last… twenty-seven hours, Severus.”  
  
“Twenty-three, more like. It takes time to arrange so private a meeting. This should help us to identify who’s betraying the Order, in any event.” The lips quirked. The black eyes were lit with something perilously close to amusement. Dumbledore didn’t make the mistake of accepting that reading. Despair, more like. Which Dumbledore was perilously close to seconding.  
  
  
Snape strode into the Headmaster’s office, his robes billowing. He halted in front of the desk, saying nothing. He didn’t need to say anything; Dumbledore knew what he wanted to hear—and had summoned him to report the opposite. The black eyes burned.  
  
Dumbledore met them unflinchingly. “They declined my services, Severus. James says he trusts his friends.”  
  
Snape’s voice was as harsh as a jaybird’s scream. “ _Trust?_ What arrogance is this? Dumbledore, you told them? You told them the Dark Lord knew about the Fidelius the very _evening_ they told the, ah, other Marauders?”  
  
“I told them, Severus. You may be assured that I did my utmost to persuade them. James regards it as a betrayal of his friends to doubt them, and Lily has chosen to back him.”  
  
Snape had turned hastily away at the name. He stayed so a moment, silent; Dumbledore could see that his hands were shaking. He swung back around and spat, “So. One chance in three they’ll be dead within a week or two. Or is it two chances in three? And you’re content to leave it so?”   
  
“Hardly, Severus. But short of using the Imperius on them, I couldn’t persuade them today. Lily did betray some reservations. Frankly, so did James—but he was unwilling to be moved by them. He regards it as a point of honor to trust his friends. I will try talking to each of them separately, represent that they’re risking their child’s life, not just their own. It was probably a mistake speaking with them together; they reinforced each other’s stands. Severus, I’ll continue to try.”  
  
  
  
Normally the coolness of the dungeons is a comfort to Snape, but now he is cold, cold, despite his frenzied pacing.  
  
It’s not too late. He still has another means of protecting her. He could betray the Dark Lord one more time: sell him on the plan he had developed last year, and trust Dumbledore to save her from Snape’s having to deliver.   
  
Can he still make it work?  
  
Can he persuade the Dark Lord? With Dumbledore apparently trusting him, granting him a position at Hogwarts, his first argument is gone, and so is much of the savor to the Dark Lord’s taste. Still, most of the Order still suspects Snape, and marrying a Muggle-born would quiet that residual suspicion. And making a Mudblood victim into a Death Eater tool will still appeal to the Dark Lord’s humor. He’ll appreciate the idea of an enthralled enemy happily marrying her husband’s murderer and working towards her own destruction.   
  
Snape’s own motives, of course, will perhaps be too transparent. He’s been careful always to ask about the Potters in terms of revenge on James, but bringing forward this plan now might make plain … his other preoccupation. Well, that would just add another layer to the Dark Lord’s enjoyment: to give her to Snape for a time, expecting shortly to force him to relinquish her again. For Snape senses the time will be short, once both the prophesied one and Dumbledore are gone.  
  
The Dark Lord might demand to hear his plan in detail; could he manage to recite it with appropriate relish? The potions he would craft, his kisses dosing her, his hands along her body? The reactions he would force from her, each in its turn, to bring about her enslavement? Snape’s eyes shut in revulsion.   
  
Open, burning.  
  
He can do what he must.   
  
He must.  
  
He can probably make it work.   
  
(Last year—even a few months ago—it would have been a certainty. He chewed that bitter morsel.)  
  
  
Can he be sure Dumbledore can keep her safe from him? How could he explain to the Dark Lord Dumbledore’s trusting him to teach, but not trusting him near her? Well, she could be sequestered away from everyone for a time. Or he could commit suicide; that should effectually protect her from his influence. Though the Dark Lord might guess his motives and pursue her in revenge. If he died accidentally, however… that should be safe enough. Leaving her to Dumbledore’s sole protection, which has already—betrayed its inadequacy. Or he could give the Dark Lord a fake potion, though there’d be the risk of his having it analyzed and figuring out Snape’s double-cross.   
  
But this problem is susceptible of solution, at least. He can make this part work.  
  
  
Which leaves the crux of the problem. Her. What she would choose.  
  
 _Lily has chosen to back him._   
  
He can still make it work. He’s reasonably certain of it. Trade her life for her husband’s and child’s.   
  
He had dreamed again, last night…. And the night before, and the night before that. It would beome tedious, could he feel tedium on the subject.   
  
A green flash. Her face, lit in terror.  
  
And the night before that. And the week before that. For… ten months, is it, now? Something like that.  
  
He could stop it.  
  
If he chose.  
  
  
The Dark Lord doesn’t deal much in rewards. But he loves torture.   
  
It would divert him to harrow a mother with an impossible choice: stand aside, save her own life, while he kills her child. Her self-hatred and her projected fate at Snape’s hands would amuse him if she accepted; Snape’s disappointment would amuse him if she refused. Mental anguish either way, with a side serving of death. He couldn’t lose, really, by honoring Snape’s request in that fashion. From his point of view.  
  
Except she will refuse. Making her death a self-sacrifice. The oldest, wildest death magic, dating back before the sacred kings. Dark Art of a sort the Dark Lord could never envisage or comprehend. Maternal self-sacrifice, no less. With unpredictable consequences.  
  
It might even work.  
  
 _“You disgust me,”_ had said Dumbledore. _“You do not care, then, about the deaths of her husband and child? They can die, as long as you have what you want?”_  
  
Snape had never heard such contempt in a voice. Never even in his own.  
  
But—truth? No. He doesn’t care. Not in the slightest.   
  
But she does.  
  
  
He could stop it.  
  
If he chose.  
  
  
He drew his arms against his body, curled himself, tightened; held his fingers away from the Mark that would summon his Master’s attention.   
  
Endured a dream of green light, destroying the one thing he values.   
  
And finds himself at the gates of Hogwarts, his finger hovering above his Mark.   
  
He touched it.   
  
  
“My Lord,” he scraped. “Thank you for consenting to see me at such an advanced hour.”  
  
Snape advanced on his knees and kissed the hem fervently.   
  
“I have come to report on the research you gave me to do; I understood it to have been pressing. My report must be negative; as to breaking the Fidelius charm, my research thus far indicates the easiest course is to find and break the Secret-Keeper. And I should doubt my Lord requires my input as to means of—breaking loyalty. Though if your stocks should be low on any requisite potion, I can of course brew more.”  
  
The Dark Lord laughed, lounging back in his chair. Snape allowed his back to tighten, allowed his hidden fear to swell.  
  
“To find… and break… the Secret-Keeper.” He laughed again. Snape stayed silent, holding his heartbeat steady.  
  
“Yes, my little Snake, I think I’ll try that first. In this case.”  
  
He waved his hand carelessly; Snape knew himself dismissed. Instead, he said boldly, “My Lord. Does this—have to do with—the matter of James Potter?”  
  
He held Potter firmly at the top of his mind, hatred waving like a banner.  
  
The Dark Lord smiled indulgently. “Possibly, Severus. What, are you thinking of your reward?”  
  
“I would never so presume, my Lord. My Lord knows the satisfaction of serving him well is all a loyal servant could desire.”  
  
The Dark Lord’s smile sharpened. “And—should a loyal servant—be _ordered_ to presume?”  
  
“Never to presume, my Lord. But—one might point out: the Dark Lord this year has a faithful servant at Hogwarts. Which he has been seeking—so he has said—for over twenty years. Were someone ordered to presume—one might presume that merits something. Something slight, easily granted. Something that my Lord has already said he might consider. If convenient.”  
  
“And you think this hypothetical—something—would be convenient for me, Severus?”  
  
Snape shrugged. “If my Lord so chooses. The girl, like her husband, is a Gryffindor; my Lord knows well they are given to tedious and pointless displays of valor. Were my Lord to give her an option, she’d doubtless fling her naked body before her child’s. No. Better to stun her straight off; give her no chance to indulge in histrionics. I can handle her later, when her will has died in grief. Her, ah, naked body will serve a better purpose then.”   
  
Snape’s smile at the thought was caressing and malicious. His tongue touched his lips briefly.  
  
The Dark Lord met the smile with one of his own. Snape stirred uneasily under the blazing regard and tried desperately to collect himself. Red eyes smashed down on black. Red eyes ripped across his mind and slashed his strongest barriers. Red eyes tore aside Snape’s hatred of Potter and found memories buried beneath: a boy wanking, eyes closed, lips shaping a name. A boy and girl arguing about Mulciber and Potter. A girl in a dressing gown, saying coldly, “I’m not interested.” A Prophet, whiskey-splashed, blurred, folded to an announcement; a voice exploding finally, “Potter?” as an arm swept a glass and a nearly-empty bottle off a kitchen table.   
  
Glass shards and firewhiskey on a floor. Blood, red, where someone had cut himself on them. Wetness on a face. It might have been tears, by the stinging. Or maybe more firewhiskey. Hard to say.  
  
Emotions, buried beneath the much-bannered hate, torn loose and exposed: an old, helpless, foolish longing, mingled with fury and humiliation. Desire for vengeance at rejection. Desire. Overlaid with new fury. And dread that her bloody foolish courage will destroy her. Before he has another chance to.  
  
Snape felt his eyes released; a laugh met him as the room returned. “Why, Severus, how touching. It seems revenge against _Mr._ Potter is not your sole motivation. Be sure I shall remember your… desires.”  
  
And he would.   
  
“My Lord, thank you.” Snape bowed deeply, face still white, and took his leave.  
  
  
Yet still he could stop it. He could still Apparate back there, offering the Dark Lord a slave. He might still make it work. He might still. Snape clung to the gates a moment to stop himself from spinning on his heel.  
  
He returned to his dungeon to endure another dream.  
  
Another dream.   
  
Another.   
  
_Just once, to give in?_   
  
Another dream. Another.  
  
 _Let me stop it? Please?_   
  
Another dream. Another.  
  
  
And it was done. What she would choose.  
  



End file.
